


The Lord of the Rings - An Unsung Tale - Part 1

by PaulH57313



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulH57313/pseuds/PaulH57313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now is the time! <br/>The men of Andrast, a long forgotten contry of Gondor have amast an army, led by Marcel, to attack the evil that lay in the fortress of Minas Morgul. Within this secret attack they hope to dwindle down their enemy enough for them to leave the shores of middle-earth for good. But...little do the men of Andrast know...their movements have been watched. Sauron has sent his dark lieutenant, the mouth of Sauron, to intercept and destroy this sudden army from the west. But with the army from Andrast be able to surpass the evil that lay in the east?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lord of the Rings - An Unsung Tale - Part 1

“Darkness crept back into the forests of the world.   
Rumour grew of a Shadow in the east...  
Whispers of a nameless fear.”  
-Galadriel – Third Age

For as long as history can remember, wars have ravaged upon the plains of Middle-Earth. Because by a number of reasons, the battles contain tragic and tremendous losses, from either side, good or bad. For the bitterness of evil showed no mercy no matter the consequence. Its hold over Middle-Earth differed depending on who controlled where, but for Gondor…was a torn land. For the abiding, lingering lands of Mordor stood forever haunting and tainting Gondor’s image. Throughout the ages, this has been the home to the monstrous and most lurid creatures known to man. Sauron, dark lord of Mordor and of all evil on Middle-Earth, used his cruelty of man to corrupt all who entered his gaze. No one dare stand against such evil.   
But for every dark thought in the mind of men, hope flickered from afar. One place in particular, far away from the outskirts of Mordor, laid that hope. In a small, remote area, known to the world as Andrast, held a city that did not commune with the outer world of Middle-Earth. They provided from themselves, whether that was for food, or even weaponry. Andrast where located within the district of Gondor, but since they kept to themselves, they declared themselves apart from Gondor. The people of Andrast had just as much hate and distrust for the lands of Mordor as any other race on Middle-Earth…and so a scheme was designed…  
The leader of Andrast, Lord Orondar, and a descendent of the men of Numenor and a man of the Dunedain, but his gift of long life that was bestowed upon him was hastily coming to its end, caught wind of an opportunity for a full scale attack on the lands of Mordor, and took it. As he was reaching the end of his life, he felt compelled to pass on his lordship onto another. Having no sons or daughters of his own, he felt that it was only fair that if this attack was successful, the soldier that showed the most passion and courage in battle would become the new leader or Andrast, and therefore lead the people of the city.  
The men of Andrast, now aware of their situation, came forward and signed up for this imminent attack on their enemies. Weeks had passed and the city had now accumulated over three thousand soldiers, all willing to sacrifice themselves for their king. To reach the land of Mordor, they would have to cross by sea, over the Belfalas Ocean, sail through the harsh area known as the Mouths of Anduin, and dock at Pelgarir. From there the armies of Andrast would go by foot along South Ithilien and launch an attack on Minas Morgul, a place once controlled by their kin, but now taken by the dark forces of Sauron, is rumoured to contain his most deadliest forces.   
Lord Orondar had appointed his closest friend, Marcel, a man from Andrast who has seen much of war, as high commander over the forces that were heading into Mordor. Marcel was a trusted warrior that handpicked many of the soldiers that where traveling with him. Among who was Arith of Rhovanion, and Lecres of Gondor, both who have grown up with the thought of war on their minds. These three would lead the attack that, if successful, end their current threat that Sauron brought upon them…

Chapter 1

Two days had passed since the ships of Andrast had left for Gondor. Six large vessels that had been outfitted for speed and grace along the waters travelled for Pelgarir, in hope to undock safely and without any interruptions. The weathers over the Belfalas seas were fortunately calm for their journey, even though a storm gathered in the east, the likes of which would reach them soon if they did not travel with all haste. Marcel stood on the bay of the leading ship staring tactically along the flat lands of South Gondor. A thought had succumbed to him in a dream the previous night that if they had changed their original destination, instead of docking at Pelgarir, and instead making a harsh landing at the shores of Southern Gondor, they may surprise their enemy in such a way, as to provide a small advantage. Discussing with the rest of his crew, and all in favour of it, the large vessel swiftly turned its course north-east. But Marcel was being particularly aware not to intrude the lands of the Harad, a race of men that swore allegiance to Sauron.   
Arith, recently awoken from his cabin down below, walked up to where Marcel stood.  
“Wait, so this course that we’ve decided to take should go in our favour?” He spoke; rubbing his eyes that where adjusting to the light from the sun.  
Marcel nodded, and raised his hand and pointed to a location that seemed a decent enough place for the army to dock. He stood up a little higher to address his crew.  
“People of Andrast, now is the time to show your courage, for the enemy may be many, but they do not possess our strength. For the king!” Marcel exclaimed, raising his sword high in the air, and harshly pointing it in the direction of Mordor. Arith followed.   
The first vessel managed to dock without any trouble. The sands of South Gondor were smooth enough, avoiding any damage that would have been done to the ship if they had landed somewhere else. A second ship approached from the right, crashing through the waves and docking a little away from the first ship. Both ships lowered their massive metal doors that landed on the sand, and as they did, Marcel’s soldiers begun to emerge. The men of Andrast swarmed out of each ship and tactically lined up on the plain and awaited the command of their leader. More ships hastily docked on the sand, with just enough room for the last few. Marcel stood at the exit of his ship, looking at his men. He crossed his arms and took in a deep breath. The Andrast soldiers simultaneously turned to face Marcel.   
“Our course now it straight north, for the realm of Minas Morgul lies deep within the mountains of Mordor. All I ask for is your courage and your blade in battle; I will ask little more of you, men of the west!” Once again, unsheathing his sword, but forcing it into the metal flooring on which he stood on. As he did, the soldiers that were in front of him gave out a large cheer, swords and spears being risen in salute to their leader, Arith and Lecres at either side, nodding away as they did.   
Marcel now led the men of Andrast across the plains of Southern Gondor and into the lands of North Ithilien, the shadow of Mordor being seen from the east as they did. He could hear the sudden chills from his men being made as they passed the mountains. He turned toward Arith.  
“There it lies. Though we cannot enter through this way.” Marcel said.  
“Are you sure this Minas Morgul place is the best way into Mordor?” Arith questioned.  
“Our path is not into Mordor, no, but to extract the armies of Mordor out of their lands and onto a more neutral battlefield.” Marcel replied.  
Arith stopped in his tracks for a few moments, took in a deep breath, before continuing onward.

Chapter 2  
"A tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse… The rider was robed all in black, and black was his lofty helm; yet this was no Ringwraith but a living man."  
Description of the Mouth of Sauron.  
The Mouth of Sauron is the lieutenant of the tower of Barad-dur, home to the lingering spirit of Sauron, who cannot retake his physical form, yet. Sauron took full advantage of the black Numenorians, in a manner of ways. He was to act as the eyes, ears and voice of his master, issuing orders to the orc that inhabited the plains of Gorgoroth. Although Sauron is bound to his tower, the great eye has seen the threat that the men of the west possess, and has caught wind of the men of Andrast and their imminent attack. So Sauron has ordered his dark lieutenant to intercept these men and stop them on their track. With a legion of orcs, Uruks and trolls, the Mouth of Sauron made for Minas Morgul.  
“Mordor…” Lecres spoke, a harsh, cold shiver shrieked down his spine.  
He had never so close to the dark lands before, nor did he intend on, but duty called. The Ered Lithui, also known as the Ash Mountains, rose as high into the blackness of the sky as humanly possible to see. The toxic fires and ash from Mount Doom had blackened the mountains beyond repair and served as a wall for enemies to enter Mordor, as well as for orcs and prisoners to escape. Minas Morgul stood at an indent in the mountains, which was where the men of Andrast were heading for, little did they know, their movements were being tracked by the eye of Sauron. Across to the left, far away but not as to disappear entirely, were the ruins of Osgiliath, a once proud city of men which stood in the shadow of Mordor ever since Sauron’s dominion over it. But as eyes drew past this city, they gazed upon Minas Tirith, city of kings. Although stewards now ruled over its thrones, in the hope that, one day, a king may return to the world of men.  
Arith peered far beyond Osgiliath to lay his eyes upon Minas Tirith.  
“Should we not ask for the help of the men from Gondor?” He questioned. Marcel sneered over toward him.  
“I would not ask that dire country for help even if our city were in ruin!” He sharply replied. He turned his attention back to the matter at hand.  
The clinking of swords and spears being moved around could be heard from behind Marcel, but he did not mind the noise, for it was a slight distraction for the horror that lay ahead. Lecres watched as the army behind him quivered in the shadow of the mountains. But as he did, the company was halted as Marcel raised his hand for everyone to stop. Silence fell for a moment, before it was broken with the unsheathing of Marcel’s blade. He then pointed it gently in front of him.   
“There’s our target, you see? There is an incline in that mountain range, that’s where it lies.” He spoke, alerting the attention of his two followers to stand forward and take a closer look.   
But their attention was soon broken, as a sudden, foul smell dropped over them from behind the mountain range to the right of them. The men from Andrast shifted around to try and avoid the smell.  
“Men! Stay where you are!” Marcel barked, clashing his sword against his leg.  
But his gaze was abruptly taken from his army, to above the mountain, as some form of creature appeared over it, and was heading in their direction, fast. This thing that had appeared was huge, and winged as they caught sight of his flapping its webbed wings to gather speed. The men of Andrast stood shocked, some poised to strike, others confused. But Marcel rushed forward and pointed toward the creature, seeing clearly that it was mounted by a dark, hooded figure.  
“Nazgul!” He exclaimed.  
The creature howled, followed by its rider letting out his harsh, high pitched wail. As the Nazgul’s screech reached the men of Andrast, the fell to their knees, clutching their ears in a feeble attempt to way out the horrid sound. Lecres took up a spear from one that was currently being held by a soldier in front of him.  
“These fell beasts? What are they doing in Mordor? I had heard that they had been extinct! And the size, they had doubled since last I encountered their kind!” Lecres said, Marcel clearly seeing the shock and awe in his face.  
The Nazgul unsheathed his dark blade as his screech ended, and pointed it at the army that lay below him. The fell beast’s fly turned into a quick dive, its huge and grotesque claws, snatching up a handful of soldiers from Marcel’s ranks, and tossing them into the nearby river. They did not emerge. The Nazgul quickly came around for another pass, this time, tossing soldiers into the wall of the mountain. The men of Andrast, now stricken with fear, began to scatter toward their leader Marcel, who stood confused at what to do. But Lecres took this opportunity to prove his loyalty, and as he caught sight of the Nazgul fixing its gaze upon Marcel, he heaved his spear skyward. It was too fast for the creature to avoid, plunging into its thick skin. The fell beast yelped, before involuntarily retreating without its master’s command, back across the mountain and into darkness.   
Marcel pat Lecres on his back, who was taking a deep breath whilst taking up his blade once more. The men of Andrast hastily lined back up into their ranks and awaited their master’s command. Marcel was looking at his fallen warriors, and held his hand against his heart, before placing it by his side.   
“Our enemy knows we are here, and has made the first move. We now know what we face, and we have overcome it! Let us move, and with all haste!” Marcel shouted toward his men, regaining their morale. He took up a light jog to quicken up their pace into the mountain.   
Chapter 3  
Minas Morgul. Once a proud city of the lands of Gondor, but now a tower of dark sorcery. It held most of Sauron’s armies during his attacks on the free peoples of middle-earth, but his darkest and most notorious servant, the Witch-King of Angmar, now inhabited it, along with the other eight Nazgul. But the Mouth of Sauron, who has been sent to deal with the men of Andrast, now lay hid within its dark halls, patiently waiting for the arrival of the men from the west.   
Now aware of the evil that the Nazgul could bring upon them and that they would be involved within this battle terrified most of the men. Enough to make them feel uneasy and unsure whether to proceed. But these men were loyal, and if their leader were going into battle unafraid, then they would to. The army from Andrast could no longer see any light from the sun, and where now in complete darkness. The air immediately got thick as Minas Morgul came into the sight of Marcel. The structure gave off a suspicious and terrifying green aura, that was made from the dark powers that where contained inside. But things seemed calm, too calm. Across the stone bridge, they could see that the large metal gate lay open, as if to beckon the men of the west forward. Clearly a trap, Marcel turned to his men.   
“Men, there is yet one path we can take, and it is through these dreaded halls. I believe that if we can find a way to make ourselves gain a tactical position in this fight, then we may yet win this.” He spoke, these semi-encouraging words, blissful to the ears of his men.   
Lecres stood closer to Marcel and whispered into his ear.  
“This is safe, right; you can guarantee our safety…right?” He slowly spoke, desperate to hear a positive reply. But Marcel did not reply, merely sighed.   
Regaining once again, the attention of his men, he thrust his blade forward toward the suspiciously open gate and his men begun trotting forward, swords and spears raised and poised to strike anything that may lie ahead.   
The area was painfully quiet, yet the men wished for more silence. The evil within Mordor was truly terrifying to anyone. Marcel now stood at the entrance to Minas Morgul, with his guard up, darting his vision around the entrance way for any signs of his enemy, but the place was deserted. The men of Andrast now swarmed into the entranceway of the tower, also aware of no one’s presence but their own. As the men fell silent once again, clanking could now be heard from a closed gate that stood in front of them. Everyone swiftly drew their weapons and aimed it toward the gate, archers taking an arrow and placing it firmly into their quivers. As the gate bore open, another hooded figure, mounted on a black steed, casually came forward. His presence seemed an unthreatening one, yet no one dare lower their defence. Marcel decided to move ahead a few paces, and interact with the man on his black steed. Marcel immediately noticed that this man was no Nazgul, for he did not bear the same markings, and bore instead, a large metal helmet, that seemed to protect his face, yet all that could be seem was his mouth. A mouth, that held strangely big, rotten teeth to be human, yet his stature made him look it.  
“Who are you? What kind of being are you?” Marcel fearfully questioned.  
The being swiftly turned his head round toward Marcel, with a large grin, and eventually spoke.  
“You come to the house of the dark lord, uninvited; no authority has been given to you to march this band of men into these halls…reasons?” He spoke, his human-like voice, stunned the men, for they too did not know what kind of being they faced. There was silence for a few moments, the being once again, grinning it’s incredibly large mouth around where he sat.  
“We do not come to talk, wretched creature, we come to drive you from these lands, you and your master-“ Marcel was suddenly cut off from talking as some form of horn had been blown and now heard from behind the gate that the being had just appeared from. It was some sort of orc horn, and had terrified the men. The being begun insanely laughing, and begun to back up. Marcel raised his sword and swung it toward the creature and his rider. The Mouth of Sauron forced his sword from his belt and blocked the incoming attack. They held swords for a short while, both trying to overpower the other before finally releasing, Marcel tumbling backward, whilst the being seeming unaffected. It continued its retreat and in its place, dozens of orcs began to appear. Lightly armoured and seeming to bear any household object that was sharp, they marched to their master’s call. Marcel gathered his men into a line across the innards of Minas Morgul and sounded the charge. Lecres snatched his horn from his belt and blew with all his might, the land of Andrast’s war call. The men raised their weapons and immediately charged, the battle for their people had now begun.   
The casualties that the forces of Mordor had succumbed to seemed at first glance crucial, but they were relentless. They black wave of orcs never seemed to stop appearing from behind the gates of Minas Morgul’s interior. The men of Andrast were becoming tired, but did not hold off on their hate for the evil they faced. Marcel made sure to keep an eye on Lecres and Arith, who seemed to be handling themselves perfectly well. The army had driven the orcs back into Minas Morgul even further than anticipated, but leaving more room for the enemy to outflank them. Marcel’s blade slashed and ripped its way through any orc that lay in front of it, but as soon as he realised how well they seemed to be doing, the ground beneath them begun to tremble. Raising his vision past the crowd of orcs, he caught sight of a new horror. Five battle trolls, fully armoured and holding huge swords not paced toward the army of Andrast.   
“Watch out! Shouted Marcel to his men, who quickly caught sight of this new threat, and forcefully charged their way toward the trolls.   
Marcel thought of an idea, whether it would work was still to be seen. He put his blade back onto his belt and took up an orcish bow and quiver full of arrows that lay on the ground and headed toward a platform that was to his left. He leaped onto it and placed an arrow in the quiver of the bow. He located the closest troll and aimed his bow, looking for a weak point where its armour could not touch, and once he did, he fired. The arrow sieved over the heads of men and orc alike and hitting its target. The arrow imbedded into a spot between its helmet and body armour and murdered the beast instantly. It collapsed on a few of the orcs that stood behind it. Marcel let out a quick cheer before a second troll made its way toward him. Marcel threw down the now and took up his sword whilst making his way toward it. Once again, a few orcs stood in his path, but he slay them where they stood with little trouble. The troll, who had taken hold of one of the men and snapped his back like some sort of twig, tossed the recently deceased soldier toward Marcel, who fortunately dropped to the floor in time for the corpse to rush by him and smash against a far wall. Marcel screamed in anger and with a heavy toss, threw his sword into the shoulder of the troll, making it collapse to its knees. Arith saw the commotion and, whilst retracting his long sword from a chest of an orc, charged toward the same troll that was in mid battle with Marcel. He lept up onto its back and with his other hand, Marcel’s sword that was imbedded into its shoulder and forced both blades through the back of its neck, the troll rolled onto its side, Arith tumbling into a rabble of orcs and taking them down to the ground as well. Unfortunately, the weapons now lay useless in the dead troll and Arith was defenceless against the orcs that now stood in front of him.   
“Arith! I’m coming!” Shouted Marcel from afar, and begun a sharp run to his aid. One of the orcs surrounding Arith made for an attack, Arith grabbing a hold of both the orc’s arms as he did. They now struggled for control. Arith screamed and forced his boot into the orcs chest, making it lower its weapon and falling to the ground. Arith then took advantage by, with his other foot, connecting it with the jaw of the fallen orc, instantly dislocating it and placing the orc in tremendous pain. But in midst of all this constant battle and movement, Marcel lost sight of Arith and now saw the horseman from earlier, blade in hand, making his way to the middle of the battlefield. Marcel quickly attempted to engage the being, but three orcs intercepted his movement. Suddenly, from behind Marcel, came the aid of two swordsmen and an archer, who led an attack that eventually took care of the orcs. Marcel nodded in thanks to the men who had returned to battle. His sight then returned to the black rider, who now seemed to be in a very short-lived battle of his own. With no doubt, the black rider was victorious, decapitating the victim and taking the head as a prize, holding it toward the darkened sky, once again, his exceedingly large grin taking over most of his sight. But Marcel suddenly fell grief stricken, as the head that the rider held in its grasp was none other than Arith, his friend who he so desperately tried to help.  
“NOOO!” Marcel screamed in horror, his feeling in his legs gave way as he stumbled to the ground. The men too saw this tragedy but continued on fighting.   
The Mouth of Sauron now slowly rode toward Marcel on the battlefield who he had recently located, and rode uninterrupted, as the men from Andrast dare not engage with such a being. He still held the head for a little while longer, before throwing it in the direction in which Marcel lay, the head, rolling a little away from his location.   
“Letting your emotions get the better of you I see! This is why you shall loose, and my master shall rise!” The black rider spoke, raising his sword skyward.   
But a sudden burst of anger-filled adrenaline rushed through Marcel’s veins as he hastily rose to his feet and forced himself toward the rider. Both Marcel and the black rider came crashing down to the ground, the black steed, rode off into the distance. The Mouth of Sauron’s sword slid a little from where they had just fallen, but too far a reach that would require little movement. He turned his attention toward Marcel and smirked, grabbing a firm hold on his neck and raising him higher than where they both stood. Marcel desperately gasped for air.   
“Fool! I possess power thou humans could only bear to imagine!” His grip, tightening as he spoke.   
But Marcel would die before he let himself fall by the hands of a Mordor lieutenant, and suddenly found an opportunity to escape. As the black rider embezzled in his victory over his victim, Marcel forced both of his feet into the rider’s chest and let out a scream. The rider’s grasp suddenly loosened and was forced back from Marcel, who now lay on the ground, coughing and spluttering away. The Mouth of Sauron now focused on finishing his job on slaying the leader of the men by moving toward his sword. As he placed it firmly in both his hands, one of the soldiers of Andrast made an attack that was hastily blocked by the rider. He grinned toward the soldier and threw him town to the ground with a mighty blow. He turned to see that the leader of the men, Marcel, had vanished from sight. He let out a bloodcurdling cry and made for his steed, which had galloped its way toward him. Mounting it again he took one final look at the battle, which was quickly turning its way toward the evil forces winning, and spoke. No one of human ears could understand the black speech that he spoke from his tongue, but as he did, a familiar but unfortunate screech was heard that bellowed throughout the halls of Minas Morgul. Suddenly, not one, but five fell beasts, arose from above the large spire, all mounted with Nazgul, and begun swooping down toward the battle below. Many a human scream was heard as men and orc where tossed from one side of the interior to another. It was utterly useless for the men to attempt to even try their hand at slaying such beasts, for their speed and dexterity made it impossible for their had to focus an attack that would successfully land.   
Marcel had crawled his way past the now losing battle and leaned against the large metal doors in which his army had previously entered and watched as his men were slaughtered by orc and beast. Their courage, hanging by a thread and their attempts to escape, made futile. The battle was indeed lost. Marcel hung his head as he felt that he had abandoned his men, his friends. Lecres, who was lost in the midst of the battlefield, could still be alive. But Marcel felt best to retreat. He would attempt aid in Minas Tirith. He turned toward the exit, and then back to speak his final words on the recent events.  
“I’m sorry…” He whimpered, before hastily retreating out onto the bridge.

Chapter 4  
Marcel lay motionless on the bridge to try and accumulate his thoughts. He dare not go back, for certain death would await him, but he dare not retreat, for the utter shame of his abandoning his men were enough to kill him. As his eyes widened to wake, he caught sight of the black rider he had but previously quarrelled with, galloping slowly toward his location. He tried to stand but collapsed immediately, his arms in tremendous pain for the adrenaline had but worn off. He knew death approached, and he welcomed it. The rider now sat on his horse, pondering to himself what to do with such a human. But he quit his current thought and drew out his sword once more.   
“Your efforts where futile, did you think you could contend with the will of my master, of Sauron?” He spoke, his grin widening as he spoke of his dark lord.   
“Please I…Please don’t…” Marcel cried, his arms rose in a defensive position as he was weapon less. The Mouth of Sauron ignored his feeble attempt at surrender and held his black blade close to Marcel’s throat.  
But…  
From the darkness of the mountain…  
A light shone…  
Unlike any that Marcel had seen before, or could remember…  
This light made the Mouth of Sauron forcefully back up, his steed rearing and wanting to flee. Marcel drew a breath as the blade retracted from his throat. He turned toward the light, instantly blinded by its awe. As he adjusted to it, he caught sight of two men, on horseback. Not black riders or any darkness that he had previously witnessed, but two elves. One were clad in silver armour, almost seeming to be untouched by rust or dirt, the other, clad in golden armour, and wearing a blood red cape. Both with golden hair flowing seamlessly toward their shoulders. They began galloping toward his direction, whether they were here for good or bad he did not know, but he felt safe somehow. He turned again to see the black rider scatter back into the darkness of Minas Morgul, and to witness the large metal gates, draw over, and close.   
The elven riders dismounted their white steeds and walked up to Marcel. The one bearing silver armour kneeled and held Marcel’s head up, whilst the other stood guard. They spoke immediately as soon as the black rider disappeared.   
“I am Glorfindel of Imladris, and this is my kin, Haldir of Lothlorien, you are safe now.” His voice, soothing and calming to listen too. Marcel attempted to speak.   
“Wha…Elves? What grace has given for me to deserve such an encounter?” He mumbled.   
There was no reply, only Haldir of Lothlorien nodding in the direction of Minas Morgul. A sudden screech had been heard from within, as the Nazgul began to pursue their master’s enemy, the elves.   
“We must leave, now!” Haldir barked. Glorfindel nodded in return.  
Before Marcel knew it, he was being hauled onto the front of Haldir’s white steed and being ridden out of the presence of Minas Morgul, the thought of war and of battle, hastily leaving his mind as he fell into a deep sleep.


End file.
